Solo Faces Read Online Free PDF

Love. He was a travel agent, in Chamonix for his third season. Wryly, he described the local scene which included bone-poor English stealing fruit and sitting for hours over a single bottle of beer. The Japanese were different. They came in vast numbers, armies of them, and could be found in the mountains everywhere, sleeping in cracks and upside down, frequently falling off—it was not unusual to see one in midair.
    “They only buy round-trip tickets for half of them,” he said. “Where are you staying?” Now was the time to get a camping site, before the crowds showed up, he advised.
    “Where are you camping?”
    “Come on.”
    He led the way. They walked up past the cemetery where Whymper, who was the first to climb the Matterhorn, lay buried. Beyond were woods. Ferns and dense greenery were everywhere. The town was not visible from here, only the sky and, opposite, the steep face of the Brévent.
    “Where are we?”
    “The Biolay,” Love said. “Later in the year it doesn’t smell too good.”
    He had already made up his mind about Rand judging from his clothes, the veins in his forearms, the cared-for equipment, but above all from a certain spot of coldness somewhere in him. He did not know him by reputation or name, but that meant nothing. He was absolutely sure of his sizing-up.
    “What have you been climbing?” he asked.
    “Nothing yet.”
    “You’re not one of these maniacs who start out by doing the Bonatti Pillar?”
    “No, I’m just getting into shape. And you?”
    “It takes me all summer. Would you like to do something?”
    “Whatever you like,” Rand said amiably.
    They decided on Pointe Lachenal. Conditions on it weren’t bad, Love had heard. And the approach, in his words, was conceivable.
    “What kind of climb is it?”
    “It’s rated T.D. Très difficile. I’m not really the world’s champion climber,” Love admitted.
    “Is that right?”
    “But I know how to climb.”
    What was almost a friendship sprang up between them in the green of the woods, the earth fragrant from the rain, the air pure and still. There were the blackened stones of old campfires on the ground. Love’s eyeglasses glinted. “Love and Rand, that’s like blood and sand …”
    “Glove and hand.”
    “Much better!”
    They made some tea. The pleasant hours of afternoon passed.
    Early in the morning they were making their way toward the Col de Rognon, a low ridge on the side of Mont Blanc. The snow was firm underfoot, not yet softened by the sun. Great peaks and pinnacles, all of them strange and unknown, were everywhere.
    They were walking unroped, a little awkwardly. The terrain was steep.
    “Good snow,” Love said.
    When they paused for a moment, Rand asked offhandedly, “Do you know how to self-arrest?”
    “Not really,” Love said.
    “Let me show you. If you’re falling down a slope, first try the pick”—he demonstrated with his ice ax—“then the edge, and if neither works, drive in the shaft.”
    The explanation seemed to open the door to certain vague dangers. Love considered they might do well to rope up but decided to say nothing. He started off again. After a while he pointed.
    “There it is.”
    They had crossed the ridge and off to the right, the early sun on its face, was a wall like a lump of anthracite, eight hundred feet high. There were greater peaks behind but this one seemed to stand out despite its smaller size, like a menacing face in a crowd upon which one’s gaze happens to fall.
    At its foot Rand stared up. He reached out to touch it. The surface was chill, as if asleep. There was a vertical crack, the start of the route. He felt a sudden uncertainty as if here, for some reason, in this remote place, his ability to climb might be lost. His confidence had vanished. He put his hands on the rock, found the first foothold, and began to climb. Slowly, meter by meter, the uneasiness left him. He made his way upward.
    At the first belaying stance he took off his sweater and